


Five Times Martin Tries to Kill Jim Gordon & One Time He Saves Him Instead

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [20]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Happy Murder Family, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: It's happening!!! I'm not gonna finish my novel this year so fuck it. Time to sooth my wary soul with some Gobblepot Family Feels.So, without further ado: The one where Martin gets left on a doorstep one last time.Or, Zsasz delivers a belated wedding gift to Oswald (and Jim, sort of).
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1024157
Comments: 38
Kudos: 60





	1. Prologue: The Acquisition

**Author's Note:**

> Yup. Back on my bullshit, y'all.

It’s the bald one that comes for him, and while Martín is hit with an urge to run as far and fast as he can, his feet stay rooted to the cement. There’s a cacophony of joyful shouts, the high-pitched squeals of his younger classmates as they play on the swings and monkey bars of their school playground, but it dulls to nothing but white noise. Victor Zsasz is as pale and ghoulish as he remembers, smirking as he strides toward the fence separating the sidewalk from school property.

Zsasz smiles as he leans casually against the top rail, hands dangling innocuously over into Martín’s side of the yard. He raises his hairless eyebrows, an expectant invitation. Martín swivels his head to see if anyone is watching—they aren’t—before cautiously approaching.

“Hey there, scamp!” Zsasz greets, a grin lighting up his face, perhaps a bit too close to manic to be normal. Which is basically exactly how Martín remembers him. “How's life?”

Martín shrugs. His foster parents are jaded but they don’t hit or try to feed him people pies, so that’s a plus. No one pays him much attention at school and he walks to and from home without fear. His life is safe. Quiet.

He reaches for the whiteboard around his neck and writes: _Boring._

Zsasz snorts when he reads it. “Yeah, no kidding. Mainlanders,” he answers, “Amiright? Wouldn’t know a good time of it bit 'em in the keister.”

Martín purses his lips and nods. He’s well aware that there is a purpose to this visit, and he is as wary as he is hopeful. Quickly, he scribbles: _Why are you here?_

Zsasz grimaces, giving an exaggerated, fully-body shrug. “Look, kid, I’m gonna level with ya here. Sophia—you remember her? Mean, vindictive lying bitch? Who am I kidding, who could forget? She, uh, landed me on the wrong side of a very lucrative business friend, a friend that also happens to be your friend—”

Martín eagerly scrawls the name of his first and best friend: _Oswald?_

“That’s the one!” Victor leans ever closer over the chain linked fence between them. Conspiratorially, he says, “You know, I bet he’d be just thrilled to see you…”

Martín takes another step forward. He spares another quick glance for anyone that might find a creepy, leather-clad bald dude lurking around a schoolyard suspicious. They wouldn’t be wrong to be concerned, except Martín is fully onboard with this forthcoming abduction.

He writes his next question quickly. Recess is nearly over. _When do we leave?_

Zsasz's answering grin is far more genuine this time. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”


	2. Bitches be Trippin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín shows up on Jim and Oswald's doorstep. Poor Jim, he never stood a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I should have warned you guys there would be more time between updates on this fic than there usually is. I'm hoping to find more time to write now that some of the demands of my new day job have slacked off. The beginning of the year crunch times are fucking real! 
> 
> At any rate, I hope you all enjoy the chapter. Let me know what you think with a kudo or a comment. <3

It starts with an interruption, as most unexpected life events do.

Jim’s got Oswald pressed up against the wall, just inside the foyer. They’ve only just tumbled in from their date, the first in far too long, and he’s impatient to get into Oz’s panties. It’s been difficult finding time together these past few weeks, especially with Oswald filming his latest commercial series for Gotham Steel.

“Missed you,” Jim says, breath short as he grinds shamelessly against Oswald’s thigh. “S’been too long.”

Oz snorts. “Someone’s being dramatic,” he replies, teasing. “I distinctly recall a visit to my office yesterday afternoon.”

Jim hums. “Did I thank you for lunch?” he asks, hands working frantically at the clasp of Oswald’s trousers.

“Not with words,” is Oswald’s coy reply as he swats Jim’s hands away with an impatient ‘tsk.’ Jim is halfway to his knees, ready to provide a repeat performance, when the doorbell croons jarringly to life.

Jim straightens on reflex, as Oswald eyes him questioningly. He shakes his head. “Not for me…I don’t think.”

Oz arches a brow but squares his shoulders to approach the intrusion nonetheless. Jim isn’t sure how the man can go from entirely debauched to sharp as a tack in an instant, but he knows he isn’t half as put together. He runs his fingers through his hair in some attempt to fix it, but the rest of his body isn’t caught up, distracted by the shift of Oswald’s backside as it moves across the foyer. It’s that tangle of arousal, refusing to immediately release its hold, that has Jim floundering when he finally realizes just who is standing at the threshold of the opened door.

“Martín?” Oswald’s voice, quiet and tentative, echoes his shock. It is followed with a soft ‘oof' as he is embraced by a young boy Jim hasn’t seen in almost three years1. Small, wiry arms clutch at Oz’s middle like a vise, and suddenly, Jim’s instincts take over as he recalls the circumstances that led to Martín’s departure from the city.

“James!” Oswald scolds, pulling the boy away from the open door and closer to the wall as Jim retrieves his firearm from its holster.

“Stay here,” he cautions, not sparing either of them a glance as he moves to secure the veranda. If this is somehow associated with Sophia Falcone, then Jim can’t risk distraction. “Close the door behind me,” he orders, as he crosses the threshold.

He completes an entire circuit around the main house, spies Ed through the picture window of the pool house, head bent over some project, either for Oswald or one of his university courses. Reluctant, he crosses the small courtyard that separates Ed from the main house and only just avoids banging the door off its hinges.

It whips open a moment later, a bewildered Ed blinking back at him owlishly behind oversize glasses. “Jim…can I help you?”

“Did you see anyone wandering around the property?” he asks, perhaps somewhat accusatory. Old habits die hard, after all, and Ed might be playing nice right now, but Jim hasn’t forgotten any of the man’s antics, up to and including that kiss he laid on Oswald.

Ed huffs an indignant sigh. “No, I did not, detective. I’ve got far more pressing matters to deal with than some mundane—”

“Martín just showed up at the main house,” Jim interjects. “Alone. You were the last person to see him, last I heard.”

Ed’s brow furrows. “Interesting.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You’re worried it’s something to do with Sophia Falcone?” Ed surmises correctly. “She’s dead.”

It’s true. Jim had watched her die when life support was discontinued. Considering how many of their mutual acquaintances have miraculously defied death in the past, however, such knowledge is cold comfort.

Seeming to read Jim’s mind, Ed sighs. “Did you try questioning your star witness?”

“Not yet,” he admits. “I wanted to clear the property first.” Annoyed, his default setting where Edward Nygma is concerned, Jim turns to leave and do just that.

“Jim.” Ed stops him with a hand around his wrist. “Did you ever spend much time with Oswald’s tiny friend?”

Jim squints, shakes his arm free of Edward’s loose grasp. “What’s that go to—”

“He’s very intelligent,” Ed interjects, persistent. “Don’t…underestimate him.”

\--

Ed’s words are still ringing in Jim’s ears, the ominous meaning behind them less murky than he’d like, as he climbs the stairs back up to the veranda. He knows that Oswald considered Martín a protégé of sorts, and that the kind of man his husband used to be couldn’t have been a healthy influence on a child. Jim remembers the kid’s file, having been intrigued by the Penguin’s attachment. At the time, Jim believed Martín had only been a means to an end but by the time Jim had Oz arrested for murder, his genuine concern for the boy had been obvious.

Still, what impact had that brief association made, and was two years in what Jim can only hope was a normal foster experience enough to undo the worst of it? Jim doubts it, especially now Martín is back and apparently very happy to see Oswald again.

He pushes the door open with a weary sigh, unsurprised to find Oswald sitting with the boy tucked protectively beneath his arm. Immediately, Jim knows his husband is determined to keep him, and fuck. Oswald is standing before Jim even has the door shut.

“Did you find anyone?”

“No,” Jim replies, eyes flitting back to Martín where he sits on the couch eyeing them both warily. “Ed didn’t see anyone either. So he says, anyway.”

Oswald clicks his tongue. “Well…we can’t just send him away,” he declares. Almost as an afterthought he adds, “He could be in danger.”

Jim narrows his eyes. “You already know he’s not, don’t you?” He sighs. “Who was it?”

Oswald purses his lips, and Jim can see that he’s tempted to lie. All this time, and he still hesitates to trust Jim with certain things. Things that matter.

Fuck.

“Zsasz,” Oz finally admits.

“Jesus Christ, Oz,” Jim laments. “Where did he take him from?”

“I don’t know.” Oswald shrugs. “Probably some god-awful foster home in the Midwest.”

“Probably,” Jim presses, “or definitely?”

“Probably,” Oswald replies, overemphasizing the last syllable, “somewhere around Chicago, if I had to guess.”

“We have to call it in,” Jim tells him, bluntly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

“What—why?” Oswald demands, fitful.

“Because if we don’t, and his foster parents file a missing persons report, we’ll be the ones on the hook for kidnapping!” He snaps, regrettably, but his nerves are frayed, and he is suffering a massive case of blue balls thanks to Zsasz and his unfortunate life choices.

Suddenly, Martín bounds off the couch, hand tugging at Oz’s sleeve. He holds up a scrawled note with a question directed at Oswald, but that Jim can plainly see: _What is he even doing here?_

Oz presses his lips together, taking time to calm himself before he speaks. “Many things have changed since last you were in Gotham, Martín.” Oswald straightens and takes Jim’s hand. “Detective Gordon and I…well. We’re married now.”

Martín’s eyes grow to the size of saucers, mouth falling open before Oswald reaches out with the fore and middle finger of his unoccupied hand, gently placing them beneath Martín’s chin to close it. It snaps the kid out of whatever trance he’d fallen into, and he ducks his head to scribble furiously into his notebook. Jim groans when he reads it: _WHY HIM?!_

“Well, I don’t know if I can answer that sufficiently,” Oswald fairly stutters before he sniffs. “Suffice it to say, we have come to love each other very much—”

Martín stomps his foot, has scribbled off another message while Oz floundered to explain he and Jim’s epic love story. It reads: _He can’t be trusted. He was on HER side!_

Oswald pinches the bridge of his nose. “Martín, I will only say this once: Jim has proven himself worthy of my esteem in your absence. You will be required to accept that if you intend to stay here.”

Martín doesn’t answer, and Oz is clearly upset by the turn this reunion is taking. Jim squeezes his hand reassuringly, before crouching slightly to bring himself to Martín’s eye level. It doesn’t take much, the boy having grown somewhat over the years.

“Martín, we know this is a lot to take in, and I’m sure you’ve had a long day,” Jim says, trying to exude the same patience he would with the kids that get brought into the station. “Why don’t we find a room for you, and—”

A well-aimed kick to Jim’s shin cuts him off mid-appeal, and he grunts with the impact. Oswald’s shrilly exclaimed, “Martín!” goes unheeded as the boy practically flies across the parlor and up the stairs. Jim quirks a rueful eyebrow as he straightens, leg still stinging with the impact, as he sarcastically laments, “That went well.”

“He’ll come around,” Oswald vacantly reassures. His expression is undecipherable, eyes focused on the staircase as he frowns after Martín’s abrupt departure. Jim isn’t looking forward to tracking him down; it’s a big house.

“You okay?”

“Of course not.” Finally, Oswald is present again, his eyes softening as he turns his gaze onto Jim. “I’ve thought of him so often, wondered if I could have done more, fought harder to keep him safe, here. With me. And now he’s back, but I…he feels like a stranger. Jim, we can’t send him away.”

Oswald folds his arms across his chest defensively, prepared to fight Jim tooth and nail on the matter if need be and, fuck it all, Jim doesn’t want to fight. There is a larger, rational conversation they need to have, but Oswald’s intentions are clear. He means to keep Martín with them, permanently, and Jim…well. They haven’t exactly talked about kids, and this is definitely not shaping out to be the usual adoption process but fuck it. Martín needs a family; Oswald is obviously already on board to step up and be that for him and so all that leaves is Jim.

He steps into Oz’s space, drawing him into an embrace as he promises, “We’ll figure it out, okay? I still have some connections in Chicago. I’ll pull some favors, see if we can’t sort something out.”

“Sort something out?” Oswald sniffs. “What are you saying?”

He means to tell Oswald that there are laws about runaways, that there will be a formal investigation into how Martín arrived at their doorstep and whether they are fit to be his legal guardians. Instead, Jim says, “I’m saying that if you’re sure about this, if you think we can give him what he needs to be happy and healthy then…” Jim dips his head, meets Oswald’s wide, hopeful eyes and can’t help but smile in response. “I’m in.”

Oswald’s reaction is instant, eyes brimming as he raises his hands to frame Jim’s face with a reverence that’s so genuinely sincere, it makes his own heart stutter. “Just when I think I couldn’t possibly love you anymore than I already have all these years…How are you real, James Gordon?”

Jim ducks his head. “It’s the descent thing to do.”

“That might be so, but it doesn’t mean you have to be the one to do it,” Oswald replies.

“I want to,” Jim says, and it’s true. The more he thinks about it, the more certain he becomes. Jim can’t help but feel just the tiniest bit excited at the prospect of being a sort-of father, even if Martín only ever accepts Oswald. If they’re able to adopt him, Jim will make sure he’s cared for to the best of his ability whether its reciprocated or not.

“I’ve always thought you’d make an excellent father,” Oz says, eyes alight with the same tentative excitement Jim feels churning in his gut.

Still, he doesn’t want Oswald to get his hopes up. “I’m not sure he’ll want that from me,” he confesses, “but if we do this, I’ll always be there for him. I promise.”

“You’ll win him over,” Oswald insists with conviction.

Jim doesn’t share his optimism. Still, he’s sincere when he replies, “I hope you’re right.”

\--

Martín runs from the foyer, his heart heavy with disappointment. Tears streak his face and he wipes at them with hands that are clumsy with anger. When he reaches the top of the stairs, he bolts left down the hall preferring the seclusion the shadowed rooms beyond the landing promise. He’d expected to find Oswald as he always was before: alone, but all the better for it. Martín would have his favor and his protection and in return he would be Oswald’s eyes and ears—just like before. They would take care of each other, and then…

And it doesn’t matter now, does it? Oswald isn’t alone. He is nothing like Martín anymore. He got married. To the stupid policeman! 

There’s a cracked door near the end of the hall and Martín ducks into the room beyond, closing the door behind him and throwing the lock for good measure. For a moment, he falls back against it, sniffling softly before he raises his eyes to assess his hiding place. The fading light of the evening filters in from a row of giant, floor-to-ceiling windows that comprise the adjacent wall. It casts the room in a soft glow, the opulent furnishings appearing almost like a dream in its illumination. Martín is momentarily thrown by the view, stricken by its beauty. He’s always loved old things, and Oswald’s home is full of them.

The dressers are a dark wood, carved with intricate patterns and looping, golden inlay. There’s a massive bed, bigger than some of the rooms he’s slept in over the years. There’s a chair that looks like a bed and a couch all put together against the wall opposite the windows, a bathroom just to its right, all of it rich black and deep burgundy and varnished gold. His anguish is momentarily forgotten as he dazedly steps further into the room.

He trails his small hands along the lavish covers of the bed as he slowly approaches the windows, pulling aside the curtains to discover a door that leads out onto a small, private balcony. Curious, he steps through to find that it overlooks a garden of neatly trimmed bushes and roses and more plants than Martín has names to give them. Even further beyond that is a fountain in the center of a massive cobble-stone pool, and an extra, much smaller house. Martín doesn’t understand why anyone with a house this large could ever need a tiny house in their backyard as well, but he supposes rich people are just weird about such things.

Still, it’s all so beautiful, and Martín sighs as he relinquishes the idea of running away again. It had only been a peripheral thought to begin with, but it is even less an option now. Oswald wants him to stay, and Martín would be a fool to walk away from that, despite his dislike of the detective. Good things don’t happen to people like him and Oswald—they have to work for every scrap. Frowning, Martín worries his bottom lip. How could his mentor be so foolish—to risk all of this for someone like Detective Gordon?

He’s barely thought the name, barely reentered the room, before there is a soft tapping on the door. Reluctantly, Martín crosses the floor to slowly unlock the door, then takes a step back. Expecting Oswald, he is crass to discover it is Gordon that carefully opens the door and steps inside.

“I feel like maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he says ruefully.

Martín sniffs and averts his gaze. He doesn’t like the man’s face. His eyes are too kind, too blue, his expressions too sincere and he knows it’s all a lie. No one in Gotham ever means what they say, except Oswald. He hears Gordon inhale and exhale in a sigh, catches his movement toward the bed-couch-thing in his peripheral.

Martín takes a quick breath then scribbles on his notepad, hand cramping from how tightly he holds the pen. He takes the few short steps to stand directly before Jim, holds it up where he can see: _I don’t like you._

To his surprise, Gordon snorts before chuckling, one corner of his mouth quirking upward slightly and the skin around his eyes pinching in a way that is almost disarming in its warmth. Martín swallows, straightening his shoulders the moment he realizes how relaxed they’ve become; how completely the detective’s demeanor has somehow managed to put Martín’s guard at ease.

The detective’s good.

He’s very, very good.

Still, Martín is thrown once again when the man raises his hands, moving them in a way that obviously has some purpose, not that he has a clue what it means. Gordon regards him afterward, as if waiting for some reply but he must read Martín’s confusion, because he shakes his head and sighs.

“Our nation’s foster care system really does kind of suck, doesn’t it?” Gordon asks, and Martín shrugs, unsure what is expected of him. The detective smiles, something small and soft, before lifting his hands and repeating the motion. This time, he explains, “It’s sign language. I had to learn it in the military, and it’s helped me as a cop more than once. This means: I can tell you don’t like me.”

Martín is curious despite himself. He writes on his notebook. _Sign language is for deaf people. I’m not deaf._

The man huffs, but it’s good-natured. “All languages are for all people,” he says, adding, “and I know you’re not deaf. Mute people use sign language, too. It’s easier, and faster than writing everything down, especially if the people in your life know how to understand it. I could teach it to you, and Oswald too, if you’d like.”

Martín purses his lips, writes a new message: _I know how to write. That’s what the notepad is for. Communicating._

“That’s true, and if that’s how you want to communicate, then that’s how we’ll communicate,” Gordon says, then leans a little closer. He asks, “But what happens when you run out of paper?”

Then I’ll write it on your face, he thinks defiantly, but he doesn’t write it down. Instead, he just stands there and stares, happy to be silent for as long as it takes the man to figure out this conversation is over. Martín doesn’t miss the way Gordon’s face falls when he gets a clue, either. It’s like a shadow moves behind his eyes, his smile dropping to something solemn and it feels strangely like kicking a puppy. And no matter how resolved he is to hate Jim Gordon, there’s a creeping sense of remorse working its way into the pit of his stomach as the detective makes to stand, awkwardly wiping his palms down his legs.

“Well, look,” Gordon says, voice taking on a more professional tone, like Martín just walked into the police station and asked for directions. “I came to let you know that you’re welcome to any room you like.” He looks around the room they’re standing in, and comments, “This one’s not a bad choice.”

Gordon smiles again, but it’s more of a tick than the genuine ones from before. “I just wanted to say…well. I know some of my choices have impacted a lot of people in this city and if you were ever one of them, then I’m sorry.” He sighs then, waits patiently for Martín to meet his eyes before continuing, “I’d like to start fresh, if we can. What do you say?”

Martín knows he won’t leave without some kind of answer, so he writes: _I’ll think about it._

Gordon’s smile softens into something more authentic as he nods. “That’s fair. Take your time,” he says, then turns to leave. When he reaches the door, he glances back over his shoulder at Martín. “Oswald wants to you to meet him downstairs in the morning so he can show you around. He’s missed you. Never doubt that.”

With that, he’s gone, closing the door with a soft click behind him. Martín feels…conflicted. Angry with himself, he shakes his head as if it will dislodge any and all second thoughts about Detective Gordon.

He’d been on Her side, after all. He’s the reason Martín had to leave Gotham in the first place. All of it…it was His fault. And now he’s taken Oswald from him, too; swooped in like a vulture in Martín’s absence to replace him. The anger resurfaces, and it’s comforting; a far more familiar feeling than any of the others. Resolved once again, he strides back onto the balcony, footsteps growing steadier as an idea takes shape. He can cry like a child, or he can do something about it. Maybe Oswald will be sad for a time, but accidents happen and really, Martín is doing this to save him.

To save them both. Friends are a liability and lovers…well, Martín doesn’t exactly understand the purpose of lovers, but he does know it is an even greater weakness. Oswald once told him as much and if Gordon has managed to brainwash the Penguin, then he must be dangerous. After speaking with the detective in person, he can see how Oswald might have been tricked. So, it’s up to Martín now. Threats are to be eliminated, and Jim Gordon is definitely a threat.

\--

Jim wakes up with a heavy heart, eyes sore from how long he’d spent staring at the ceiling, enviously listening to the sounds of Oswald sleeping unburdened beside him, the night before. He’s pensive as he sits up and prepares to face the day. Immediately, he feels melancholy slip over his mood as he reflects on Martín’s blatant dislike. The kid’s jealous, that much is obvious. He sees Jim as an obstacle rather than an additional support, stuck close to Oswald’s side all evening when he finally returned downstairs, fixing Jim with hateful stares when he thought no one was looking, and it…chafes.

“I can feel you brooding,” Oswald says, interrupting Jim’s thoughts as he languidly rolls onto his back with a yawn. “Surely you’ve been kicked in the shin by children before. It can’t possibly be as soul crushing as you’re making it seem.”

Jim snorts. “Ha-ha. Never too early to laugh at my pain, huh?”

“He’ll come around.”

“Yeah…”

Oswald sighs, put upon. “Jim, look at me.”

Begrudgingly, Jim picks his feet up from the floor and turns sideways so that he can scoot up and sit against the headboard with his legs stretched out on the mattress. He turns his head toward Oswald, who’s raised himself up to mirror Jim’s position, their shoulders pressed together.

“He’s going to love you,” Oz tells him. “There is no reality that exists in which anyone is capable of resisting your charm.”

Jim flushes, despite himself. “Yeah, well. You’re biased.”

“Yes,” Oswald admits, “because you charmed me into being so.”

Jim has to kiss him, there’s no help for it. Oswald meets him halfway, both of them savoring the moment with slow, easy presses of lips, one after the other. By the time they finally pull away, Oz’s eyelids are heavy with contentment and Jim can tell he’s one blink away from rolling over and going back to sleep.

Jim pecks him one more time on the forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

Plaintively, but not enough to actually get up, Oswald replies, “Call me when you hear from the caseworker in Chicago?”

“Of course,” Jim promises.

It’s only twenty minutes later that Jim is stepping out into the hallway dressed for work. He spares a final glance back toward Oswald’s sleeping form, accustomed now to the stab of regret that follows. If only they could sequester themselves away in that bed and never leave it, but the city awaits them both. Best to meet it head on.

He stalls once again as he reaches the stairs, eyes locked on the opposite end of the hall where Martín has taken up residence. Oswald is right in that he can’t let himself be discouraged. If they’re going to talk to Jim’s connections in Chicago and legally adopt Martín, then it’s up to Jim to earn the boy’s faith. Trust takes time, of course, but if they’re able to offer Martín a permanent place to call home, a family to call his own—that’s the first step.

Feeling a bit of his confidence return, Jim descends the stairs to the foyer. He’s about halfway down when his foot catches, the loose grip he’d had on the rail doesn’t tighten in time to save him from the tumble that follows. There’s a moment, just before the back of his head connects with the floor below, where he thinks: Thank God Oswald has a thing for thick, Persian rugs. It blunts the impact when the back of Jim’s head connects with it an instant later, but the force of it knocks him unconscious all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In this timeline, if I haven't fucked it up, Jim and Oswald got together after at the end of season 4. If y'all remember, I only went up to 4x20 or 4x21 before diverging from canon. Anyway, They were together two years, then got married and it's been almost a year now so 3 years since they've seen Martin. The actor, at the time of the show being made, was 8yrs old. 
> 
> Seeing as Martin was depicted as being far more intelligent than his classmates, and he looked as though he's been advanced a few grades, I'm going to make that my personal canon. He was eight and is now going on 11 for the purposes of this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a review! I need people to talk to me about plots and gobblepot....gobbleplots?


End file.
